


Contrast

by JuliaJekyll



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Cuddles, Pining, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8190016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: In which George has a good morning, and John has a decidedly bad one. This fic is a follow-up to "And He'll Never Know", and will make more sense if you've already read that one.





	

If he had a dream about Paul last night, John doesn't remember it now.

He doesn't remember dreaming about anything, really, but his first thought upon waking up is of Paul, so he figures he might as well have been dreaming about him.

He doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't open them because if he does, he'll see that he's in bed alone, and he doesn't want to face that yet.

John shifts his body slightly. He almost wishes that he'd let himself fall asleep on the couch last night, with Paul's head on his shoulder and his body on top of him. Then at least he'd have woken up with Paul's warm body in his arms, and he could have pretended for an instant that Paul wanted to wake up that way as much as John himself did. But he'd gotten off the sofa and gone to his room, leaving Paul for the night.

In retrospect, he thinks, registering his painful erection, maybe it's for the best that he didn't end up spending the night close to Paul. Waking up hard is commonplace; it doesn't necessarily mean anything, so it probably wouldn't faze Paul too much even if he did feel it, but it would be a little too much for John to handle. He can't get too close to the truth around Paul, because then he might do something stupid, like break down and tell him how he feels, just so he won't have to carry the weight of the secret anymore.

But of course, he won't do that. Paul's going to remain utterly clueless, provided George's too-perceptive girlfriend can keep her mouth shut. John still isn't sure how exactly she figured it out, but the mere fact of there being someone else who knows about his feelings for Paul makes him uneasy. It makes the feelings seem more real, almost as if they're visible. As if anyone can see them floating above his head, advertising to the world that he's a queer freak, and not even the kind who gets drunk and fucks anonymous, beautiful boys in dark alleys until he cries. No, he's worse than that; men having queer sex to satisfy their cocks is normal enough, even if it's not exactly acceptable in polite society. At least then it's just sex. No; John is the sort of queer who falls in love with his best friend and spends his time pining over him, wishing desperately that he could have him and only him. He's the sort of queer who pins his hopes on the impossible and can't let it go.

He's the sort of queer who's going to be miserable for the rest of his life.

John sighs. His dick throbs; his erection isn't going away. This isn't just a typical morning hard-on; this is arousal. Because now he's thinking about Paul.

Almost involuntarily, John's hand begins to move down his body, toward his crotch. He closes his fingers around his cock, and he's so bloody keyed up that the single touch is enough to draw a light moan from the back of his throat.

He should let go. He wants to let go, but he can't, and within seconds he's squeezing, rubbing, pulling...

* * *

George wakes up happy. He's got a good rest behind him, a day of freedom in front of him, and a gorgeous girl still asleep in his arms. Her head is resting on his chest, her wavy dark hair draped over his arm and her long lashes visible against her pale cheeks. The thumb of her left hand is just barely touching George's exposed collarbone, and George can feel one of her legs draped lightly over both of his. She looks peaceful and pretty, and George smiles to himself, glad she's here.

George has met, interacted with, and been mooned over by enough girls by now that he knows very quickly whether he's going to like one in particular or not, and he likes this one. A lot. She's sharp but sweet, keen but not rabid, beautiful without being too conceited. She treats him like a human being rather than a hot commodity, and her American accent, he has to admit, is something of a turn-on. She's also a very good kisser, and she's got an uncommonly delicious neck that George spent a fair bit of time sucking on last night and would very much like to continue sucking on this morning.

George is also impressed by how quickly the other Beatles have taken to her. Ringo and Paul like her; both of them have mentioned that she seems a good type for George, and even John doesn't seem to mind her, though George has noticed that John seems a bit distant lately. He can't tell why, but he suspects that it has something to do with Paul. It nearly always does, where John is concerned.

His companion stirs, and George kisses the top of her head.“Morning, love,” he says fondly.

The girl smiles sleepily, and George feels the stretch of her mouth against his skin. “Morning, George,” she replies.

God, George loves the way she says his name. She sits up and leans down to press a kiss to his cheek. He feels her eyelashes flicker against his skin and grins at the sensation, before taking her face in his hands and pulling her gently towards him, kissing her lips softly. “Mm, you're good to wake up to, like,” he comments.

“You too, son,” she returns, and George snorts at her terrible attempt at sounding Scouse. She lays back down, snuggles up to him again. Gently, she strokes his chest.

George sighs contentedly. “Ah, love. Can we just stay in bed today?”

“I don't see why not. I've got no plans.”

“For once,” says George, “neither have I.” They lay in silence for a few minutes, watching the pale winter sunlight spilling through the window, each enjoying the proximity of the other.

“You know, Johnny reckons you like me,” George says, trying to sound neutral but unable to keep a hint of a question out of his voice. He knows it's a bit needy on his part to want to see her reaction to this, but he can't help his curiosity. They've only known each other for a few days, but George can already feel a bond forming between them, and he wants to know if she feels it, too. He's realized that if he's not careful, he might actually fall for this girl.

He's not in the mood to be careful.

“Does he?” she asks. “At least he doesn't need his glasses to see the obvious.”

George grins at that. “He said you talked about me. While the two of you were smoking.”

She raises her head and smiles at him. “Guilty as charged. I like talking about you, George.”

“Even with Johnny?”

She shrugs. “He's kind of a prick, but he's a listening ear.”

“You think he's a prick?”

Her eyes widen a bit. “I'm sorry; I know he's your friend. And I don't dislike him, necessarily, I just-”

George waves a hand. “No, no, don't worry; even John knows that he's a bit of an arsehole.” He swallows. He can't say it didn't bother him, last night, watching her stand outside with John, but he'd reminded himself that he didn't have any claim on her and that she could do whatever she liked without him following her about. If he's being honest, there's a part of him that's always been a bit jealous of John, and that jealousy extends to John's ease with women. That part of George, the jealous part, had been half-expecting her to come back inside giving John serious bedroom eyes.

“So you're not...” George swallows again, hard. He hates asking this. “You're not...interested in him?”

“In John? Lord, no. You're the only Beatle for me,” she replies, punctuating her statement with a kiss on George's neck.

George smiles at that. “Glad to hear it,” he says, and he's barely finished the sentence before he feels her mouth on his throat again, slightly open, sucking a hard kiss into his skin. George moans under his breath, then decides he's had enough of thinking about John and just enjoys the sensation.

“Give us another kiss, love,” he requests hoarsely as she pulls her lips away from his Adam's apple with an audible smack.

“You've got it.” She lifts herself up onto her elbow and kisses him, and George wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and letting himself get lost in her lips. This day is theirs, and he's going to enjoy the hell out of it.

* * *

John hates himself for this.

When was it, exactly, that he lost all of his fucking self-control? When had he allowed his stupid, ridiculous, _queer_ feelings for Paul to own him so completely? When had his body decided that it was even remotely acceptable for his prick to get hard every goddamn time he so much as _thought_ about Paul's perfect, kissable-looking mouth? And when, fucking when, had he allowed the thought to cross his mind that he could probably get off quite nicely to mental images of Paul McCartney?

It doesn't matter, he decides. He's past the point where he can stop himself from sliding his hand slowly, tantalizingly, from the base of his cock to the tip, rubbing the head, squeezing gently here and there. He thrusts his hips into his own hand, letting his impossibly hard member slide through his fist as he settles his lower half back onto the bed. _God,_ it feels good.

John pictures Paul beside him, pictures looking into his eyes as he curls his hand around John's cock, lips wet from John's tongue, smile smug because he can see how desperate John is for him.

“Please, Paul,” John whispers, “faster. Please; I want to come for you.”

John begins moving his hand faster, biting his lower lip to stifle a moan. “Paul...” he slows his pace down once again. For some reason, he thinks that Paul would like to tease him, to keep him on the edge for an extra moment or two. “Paul,” he begs, his voice very soft, “please, let me come, I'm so close...I need to come...” He imagines Paul leaning down to kiss him, to run his tongue over his lips, to bite softly at his mouth...

 _“Ohh,”_ John moans as he comes, coating his hand, then continuing to rub until his dick becomes oversensitive, still imagining Paul's face. “Oh, Paul...” he trails off, and then, suddenly, he's crying, tears rolling from the corners of his eyes, down his temples and into his hair. Because, of course, it's not Paul who's been jerking him off, it's just him and his sickness, him and his queerness, him and his warped, fucked-up mind.

John hates this feeling. He hates himself for having this feeling; hates Paul for making him have it and for being completely oblivious to the fact. He rolls over onto his stomach, ignoring the wetness that spreads from his spent cock onto the sheets, and buries his face in his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. Even though he's already gotten off, he still wants Paul here, in his bed, in his arms. He wants Paul everywhere, all the time. And it hurts.

* * *

John can't look Paul in the eye that evening.

They're sitting together in the main room of the cabin, in front of the fire. George and his girlfriend (whose name, John now knows, is Heather) are tangled together on one of the couches, oblivious to everyone else, kissing with the unhurried passion of two people trying to preserve a moment that they know will end all too soon. And John can't help but feel a surge of jealousy. The simple satisfaction of kissing someone he loves is exactly what he wants right now.

Too bad, he thinks, guiltily sneaking a glance at Paul's mouth, he's not going to get it.

John slides his lower lip between his teeth and bites down. He suddenly wants his guitar. He eases himself off the couch and goes to get it, brings it back out to the main room, sits down, begins to play.

A few moments later, Paul disappears down the hall, comes back with his own guitar, and joins in. It's easy. Simple. John doesn't know how to handle his feelings, but he does know how to do this. This is his bond with Paul, such as it is.

It should be enough.

It bloody isn't, but it should be.

The notes that John plays sound sad, but at least they're there, and at least Paul can hear them. It's the closest he'll get to telling him the truth; the closest he'll ever come to making him understand.

It's something, anyroad.


End file.
